


After the Music

by Gemmi999



Category: My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: AU, Bob is broken, But that's okay because Brent's done with the fuckers, Gen, Gerard is hopeful, Pete is scheming and crazy, Right?, and Spencer is kind of a bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-31
Updated: 2009-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmi999/pseuds/Gemmi999
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brent knew leaving Panic would be hard, but he never thought it would be this hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Music

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bandom Big Bang--Year Unknown. 
> 
> Started as a question that quickly spun out of control. What did Brent do once he was out of Panic? Assumes Bob's wrists were a lot more fucked up then they really were, and ya know, set before the Killjoy's were even a glimmer in Gerard's fucked up mind.

He hadn't thought it would be difficult readjusting to normal life. He'd been doing it for seventeen years before--but fuck, apparently a couple of years away from reality tended to screw with even the most well-adjusted of heads. And he could never claim to have been well-adjusted in the first place.

His parents tiptoe around him, to begin with. They're quiet when they used to be loud, and his dad stops his incessant humming before the tune even leaves his mouth, trying to keep the music out of Brent's ears. Brent kind of wishes it was that easy, that he could just turn off the part of him that actually heard beats and rhythms and tones, but he can't. That's all he's been hearing for years at this point, since he was thirteen and Ryan and Spencer asked him to join A Summer League because he could play guitar. He's trained his ears to hear music in everything, and even now that he isn't making any, he still hears the sweeping of the street cleaners and the honking of horns and thinks about how it could all blend together into a piece he'd call "Modern Life".

His mom believes in looking at the bright side of things. She leaves him college brochures spread out on his computer desk, and hides away the scrapbook she'd been keeping of the guys, as they made their way into the crazy world.

He'd known it would be difficult, but this feels as though entire parts of himself are missing. They'd been missing while he was on tour, as well, but this—

Brent doesn't know when he started noticing the missing pieces, when he started noticing the absences that used to be filled, and the noise that used to be voices and laughter and people enjoying each other's company. But now, at his parent's house, in the suburbs of Las Vegas, he can feel what's missing down to the toes of his feet.

It fucks with his balance, just a little, enough to skew things, and no matter how hard Brent looks, no matter where Brent looks, there's still something left of center.

\--

He walks around the house in his boxers and mismatched socks and wishes he was still with the band. He knows exactly where they are, can almost feel when they take the stage, an internal clock that he never noticed developing. His fingers strum along to conversations about college; about his old friends; about what his life used to be like. He doesn't even notice, really, until his mom reaches over one night during dinner and rests her hand against his palm, stopping him from figuring out the proper fingering for a conversation about second-hand cars and craigslist.

His mom keeps all his favorites stocked in the pantry, and he doesn't want to admit that he's wallowing, but he doesn't look ashamed, either. He isn't taking advantage of her willingness to buy anything and everything, he's mourning. Life as he knows it is dead and not quite buried, and if he wants to eat Ho Hos and drink chocolate milk then he figures he's earned it. Not like he has to stay in shape for the costumes anymore.

His days are part of a cycle--he wakes up, showers, eats breakfast and goes over to Cindy's house. He fucks Cindy a lot; everywhere he can imagine fucking her, and then does it all over again. He doesn't blame her for what happened with the band; he'd made the decision to keep answering her phone calls when he should have ignored them, he made the decision to skip sound check for phone sex, to almost miss a performance because she'd been describing in perfect detail how she would get him off the next time he came through Vegas. Now that he's out of the band part of him figures that she owes him every conversation they ever had, acted out in living color.

Brent's at her house a lot. They go through boxes of condoms together, try different positions and on one memorable occasion Brent even gets to tie her up. It's not a grand passion, but the sex isn't anything to sneeze at, either. It's normal, something that Brent had missed when he was on tour. It's not high stress and its not forever, but it's what Brent needs.

They break up two weeks after Brent gets home in a blaze of ordinary problems amongst an extraordinary situation. Brent shouldn't have picked up her cell phone, read the text message--he acknowledges this. But fuck--he shouldn't have found out that Cindy had been sleeping with her old math tutor from a text message, either! Especially not one that says: "Tests came back--I'm clean."

Brent walks around his parents' house in his boxers even more after this. He still tracks Ryan and Spencer's progress around the world (they brought out the music in him and it's refusing to go back to sleep, refusing to lay dormant until called upon, and if Brent could make himself he'd hate them), strums along to different conversations, and knows when to put his hands in his pockets based on his mom's ability to glare. Sometimes he thinks about calling Ryan up, about apologizing and asking to come back, but then he tries to swallow and there's a lump in his throat that he can't ignore. And this is hard, it's the hardest thing he's ever done, but he thinks it might be a little necessary, too.

\--

The first time is by accident, as much as something like that could be an accident. He'd been stumbling home, blind and confused because the boy that he'd been with hadn't really been into the sex but still let him fuck him and then left with his shirt held over his dick, modest and shy after Brent's dick had been up his ass and god—Brent thought the celebrity fucks would stop now that he wasn't fucking famous anymore. He'd been in a band. They got together and kicked his ass to the curb. Shit happens, fuck, more than a month ago now. He might have Pete Wentz's cell phone number, but that didn't fucking mean anything other than Brent was hard up for friends and he didn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

So, Brent fucked the boy and then the boy looked at Brent with disdain in his eyes, with hatred that oozed out of every pore when Brent said he wouldn't pass the demo along, because seriously? It wasn't even that fucking good. And there were angry words and heated words and suddenly Brent felt like the biggest faker in the world. Because maybe it was possible that he used people until there was nothing left, sucked them dry and threw them away, but he thought it was more possible that the guys were the vampires instead. And maybe Brent had picked up a few bad habits from them—it was only to be expected, living in such cramped quarters, brushing up against one another all the time.

So the boy held his shirt in front of his dick and scrambled into the bathroom, shouting at Brent to "get the fuck out of my apartment, you poseur," and Brent gathered his clothing and stumbled into his boxers and they weren't too bad, not crusty or anything, so he felt totally fine walking home in them. Brent debates shouting goodbye as he leaves, but doesn't have the balls to be casual about the entire encounter, doesn't know how to internalize it and process it and compartmentalize the reactions.

So he walks home and the street is loud at night, and the lights are little neon and little flashy and they hurt his brain in that random ass way things look a little different during self-reflection, and he decides that a glass of water would be like fucking gold. Motherfucking gold. Motherfucking Amazingass Non-Cheap Gold. Because seriously? Water sounds like a plan.

He walks into a club and doesn't really look around, doesn't notice the people on the dance floor or the different drinks that are being consumed. He knows his vices, knows his weaknesses, and he doesn't drink, doesn't give into temptation. Instead he mumbles something to the bartender, asks for something to make the pounding in his head go away, or at least develop a steady beat.

It's all a bit unreal in his head, that people would still sleep with him for the music, that people still know who he is and what he used to be. It's been a month and he's fucking moved on from that shit, he's gotten his life back together, and yes he doesn't listen to modern music; he doesn't turn on fucking MTV or VH1. He has Pete's number in his cell; Patrick's--he can call motherfucking Fall Out Boy and have them return his calls and he knows that's power but its a power he doesn't abuse. It's a power he doesn't really acknowledge, to be honest. He doesn't initiate any of those contacts, he lets them call him when they're ready, and okay, so it hasn't actually happened yet. There's been no contact and that grates a little , but it's normal. Brent keeps telling himself that it's a matter of time, of propriety.

Pete's on Ryan's side, always been on Ryan's side and now Brent is in the middle of a bar, sipping at a glass of water and wishing it was something harder , but he doesn't drink--one of the few rules he's established for himself, and it's normal.

Normal is fucked up.

And he totally slept with a hot boy a few minutes ago , and he knows he could do it again, but he doesn't want to. All he's been doing since he came home is sleep with random people, and if he wasn't such a firm believer in condoms and spermicidal gel he'd probably have a bastard already in some girl's oven.

And fuck, this isn't how he imagined his life going a few years ago. This isn't what he wanted for himself, this was never how he wanted to end up. It's kind of an epiphany and kind of a realization and kind of a pinch of everything and a dash of nothing and he hates his life. Hates this.

So, it's the first time he slept around with a male fan, and it's also the last time. He slams the glass of water down on the countertop and fakes his way to the door. Epiphanies that happen in bars, in the dead of night—he thought he'd left that far behind. Better to be outside where the moon can shine down on his face and he can look up , and he's pretty sure the entire thing would be more poetic that way, too. He knows they're all in the gutter but at least he's looking at the motherfucking stars. And its a beginning.

\--

His mom doesn't stop her hints about college, about moving on, and he thinks about it, he really does. It's hard, though, trying to figure out what he wants to do with the rest of his life. He fell into the band when he was young, following his friends into their obsession with music, into _his_ obsession with music. Ryan found him and he found the band, and it was never something he wanted with his entire being, so now that he doesn't have it, now that he has to find something else? He's lost.

He thinks about self-help books, gets as far as the self-help section at the library , but chickens out when he sees a couple of tweens hanging out by the cd section, and he's still paranoid enough about being recognized that he swings into the graphic novel section and spends two hours looking at comics that he's never read and has no desire to start reading, either.

Later that evening when he goes home he doesn't look his parents in the eye. They've been tolerant of his mood, his bitchiness, but it hurts to look at them and know that he hid in the library today because he might be recognized, because he's embarrassed--because, because, because. His entire life seems to be excuse after excuse, and he doesn't think this is the way to live, but he doesn't know how to stop, either.

It's become involuntary: like breathing, like existing. He wakes up and thinks about what he could be doing, where he could be sleeping, who he could be talking to. He thumbs the names in his cell phone and thinks about how it all seems like a crazy dream, something that happened to him in another lifetime because seriously? Seriously? He has Patrick Stump's phone number saved; he could text him if he wanted (but he doesn't) and if that doesn't defy explanation, Brent doesn't know what does.

\--

Brent remembers things at odd times, with no logic except the neurons in his brain firing and hitting one another, making him flash into a memory. He's at the grocery store, reaching for cereal, when he bumps his hip against the cart and feels the sharp edge of his cell phone in his thigh, and suddenly he's remembering Pete and the fucking lectures they used to get about keeping their cell phones on them at all times because Pete fucking hates not being able to get in touch with them when he needs to.

Brent snaps his head back, forces the memory away into the corner of his mind, and continues reaching for the cereal. A few aisles later he's picking up laundry detergent and he remembers why Pete had been lecturing that day, remembers Brendon's sad face as he told the guys that he forgot his cell phone in his pocket again and that it had gone through the wash. Brent is getting good shutting the memories down, though, and he keeps reaching for the detergent and he cuts the image of Brendon's face off, even as he thinks about the crocodile tears that he'd been crying, because Brent has more important things to worry about now, like which brand to use--Tide wins out.

He's standing in the checkout lane twenty minutes later, looking impatiently at the soccer mom in front of him who is debating the difference between soy milk and light soy milk, and all Brent wants to do is tell her that it doesn't fucking matter, both have enough estrogen to severely fuck her children up if fed in large enough doses, when he's suddenly remembering having the same conversation with Andy. Andy had been the first vegan Brent met, and it had been exotic and normal at the same time, talking with the drummer of a famous band about how soy milk, while delicious, is also fucking dangerous as fuck.

Brent remembers the conversation being cut off because Ryan had called him, demanding his presence, and that might have been the beginning of the end. As much as Brent doesn't like admitting his own fuck ups, this one he owns like a brand across his soul, permanently marking him, and it takes him a couple of seconds to realize that the voice he's hearing now isn't a memory , but rather the checkout lady asking him paper or plastic.

Brent always chooses paper, recycles it afterwards because he tries to treat the earth well, even though he knows that reusable bags are probably better in the long run, and this time he doesn't let his mind wander. Doesn't let himself think about Ross and his vendetta against plastic bags, or Brendon and his tendency to use them in creative arts projects--more than once Brent has worn a paper-bag vest around the van because Brendon had been bored.

Instead he pays the bill and pushes his cart outside, blinking in the fresh air. He loads his car and pushes the cart to cart return. He isn't the kind of asshole that leaves the carts everywhere for the bagger to collect--he knew people in high school who had to collect them, and they bitched enough about it to make an impact. As he walks back to his car, Brent absently reaches into his front-jean pocket and touches the smooth metal of his cell, making sure it's still there.

The need to be connected in case something happens is ingrained in Brent, even though the phone hasn't rung in the past few weeks (unless it's his parents calling to ask where he is). Just touching the phone relaxes Brent, and he climbs into his car. If he doesn't get home soon the ice cream will melt, and that might be too much of a tragedy in the dramady that has become his life.

\--

Brent doesn't admit it, but he facebook stalks his friends. Not Ryan or Spencer, not Brendon, but the others from high school who did the normal thing and moved on with their lives. Went to college, got girlfriends or boyfriends or irreplaceably cute puppies named Winston and seemed to have their shit together.

He doesn't comment on their status, just notes when it changes and feels a tiny pang inside himself when his high school crush changes her status to "engaged". He did it on the road, too, but that wasn't as creepy. That was him legitimately trying to keep tabs on people who were thousands of miles away, people who might have made parts of his high school experience a living hell but were still part of it, still remembered him when he was just Brent, the goofball in the back of the class and not Brent, part of a famous band.

Now that he lives back in Summerlin and the majority of them can be found three blocks over at the local mall? It's pathetic. He could just stroll outside, walk to the bookstore, run into someone and catch up on their life the old fashioned way, through conversation and well-intentioned lies disguised as truth.

\--

He lets his mom convince him that a couple of classes at the local community college will do him some good. He cuts his hair and dyes it blond, trying to hide in plain sight. The thing is, most of these kids went to school with him, or their friends did, and they know who he is even if he hides behind his blond hair and fake attitude.

When he has to introduce himself, he just kind of mumbles his name. Part of him thinks that it could be worse, they could be playing "two truths, one lie" and his truths could be: _I used to be part of a multi-platinum band, I toured the world, I knew Pete Wentz and the rest of the guys from Fall Out Boy, and I threw it all away because that wasn't reality._ And people wouldn't call lie on any of it, except the part that he threw it away.

He didn't; he got thrown away like yesterday's trash.

Yes, he's done some things that he isn't proud of, but it was a difficult transition and none of them had so much as called him since. They swore the band wouldn't break their friendship, but he might as well no longer exist. He probably didn't exist, in their narrow, fucked-up worldview.

Thank god for psychology--it was expanding the fuck out of his vocabulary.

\--

Brent takes pleasure in updating his MySpace and facebook accounts. They're already in friends only mode, so he doesn't worry about censoring himself. He's as bitchy as he can't be in real life, snarking over photographs of the band and their outrageous outfits; insulting the people who used to sell him pot. He doesn't defriend anyone, not even Brendon Urie, but he doesn't read their comments, either. He just updates his status with things like: "ass is sore from being royally fucked over by my _friends_" and "biology fucking sucks ass, just like you-know-who."

He knows he sounds like a petulant child, but he's surprisingly okay with that characterization. Sometimes he feels like a naughty kid, being scolded, having his toys taken away. And as awesome as biology isn't, it doesn't make up for missing what used to be his life.

\--

He doesn't drink anymore. He got that out of the way in the middle of one of the tours--he thinks Nintendo Fusion, but all the tours have blurred together in his memory.

He remembers reaching the point where he couldn't recall not being hung-over, when he couldn't remember what it was like to wake up with a clear head and the ability to smell. He knew that Ryan's dad had had a problem, just like Brent's cousin on his mom's side, and thought that it was probably better to stop now. He knew it'd be easier at least, going cold-turkey when he wasn't addicted, when he didn't crave the mind numbingness that alcohol could induce.

Now that he's doing the college thing, now that he's hanging out with Anna-Marie from his Psych class and she's asking if he has a fake id because there's a killer bar downtown that she's been wanting to check out and he seems like just the gentleman to take her, he wonders.

After debating for half a second, he frowns slightly and explains that he doesn't have a fake id, but that if she wants, he's down to go to the movies with her AND he won't complain about her wanting to see a chick flick.

She doesn't respond, instead throws her hair carelessly over her shoulder and flounces off. She says something about Vinnie and how he might want to take her, that he's man enough to handle alcohol, and Brent honestly isn't sorry to see her go.

\--

He listens to music, still, but nothing that would somehow remind him of what he's given up. He has a thing for country, thinks Taylor Swift is pretty, and she seems pretty genuine. He hasn't met her, which makes it easier. And sometimes, when he's listening, he strums out the bass line for her songs because it is instinctual.

He's also been listening to Rascal Flatts and Keith Urban and he might, _might_ try watching American Idol this season because his mom is really into it, thinks it offers people a chance to get somewhere with their lives. Brent's just thankful he doesn't have that great a voice because she would totally make him audition if he did.

Country is a far safer bet, though. It doesn't taunt him, remind him of his potential.

\--

Brent is a man of tradition, a creature of habit. His cell phone has created indentations in his jeans, rubbed the material raw until he can tell exactly where the phone usually rests against his thigh.

He always fills up his gas tank when it hits the halfway mark--that tradition got started shortly after his sixteenth birthday when he ran out of gas in front of the high school. He can still feel the creeping blush of embarrassment at the memory of his dad yelling at him in front of the entire school because he had to leave work early to get Brent gas for his car.

And he checks his band email every Sunday morning. The times vary--sometimes his parents drag him to church, sometimes he's busy with homework or watching TV. But at some point he'll amble over to the computer desk and very deliberately type in his user name and password, and stare at ads for Viagra and penis enlargers for ten minutes before clicking the Hotmail account shut.

He never deletes the spam; doesn't like the idea that next week when he logs back in an empty email box will greet him. Instead he scowls at the computer for a few minutes before clicking on Outlook Express and getting caught up in wall posts and friend requests. He ignores all the names he doesn't recognize--fans still trying to reach out and touch some piece of stardom, even if that piece is a broken musician.

Usually he can waste at least a couple hours on the net. Just enough time for the unease to burn off.

\--

Brent studies haphazardly--he's never had a chance to develop good study skills, and now doesn't seem like a good time, either. He waits until the last minute to write his lab reports, does the required reading when he's drowsy and Gossip Girl or LOST is on TV. He knows that it isn't productive, but he doesn't know how to make himself buckle down, doesn't know how to go to the library and sit in silence for hours on end.

His mom suggests a study skills session on campus, and he thinks about it for a few seconds before dismissing the idea as absurd. His dad just shrugs and suggests flash cards.

It takes failing a biology test for Brent to admit that maybe he needs a little help. He finds a tutor the next day on campus. It seems less embarrassing then going to the Modified Student Instruction (MSI) sessions, at least.

\--

The tutor's name is Bill and he has red hair. Brent laughs about this, is a dick about it actually, calling Bill "Weasley" and asking about magic potions to make the entire biology text book suddenly interesting and interactive. Bill just shrugs his shoulders and says that he's not sure that can happen, but he can explain the difference between anaerobic and aerobic organisms.

Bill makes sure that the lab reports get turned in on time, with most of the correct answers written down. He reviews the material with Brent. He even expects Brent to read the textbook and highlight important passages.

Brent's fairly sure the entire experience could be classified as torture, except Bill is remarkably easy on the eyes and Brent enjoys flirting with him a little bit. He doesn't intend to actually back any of the flirting up—Bill is far too straight—but it makes long afternoons a little bit shorter; a little bit funnier.

It reminds him of his boys, of their lazy afternoons spent lounging around a van; of Brendon snuggling up to him and Ryan taking candid photos that he would later try and blackmail Brent with.

Bill is the first time something's felt easy since he came home, the first time something's felt normal. Brent doesn't tell Bill this, though; doesn't tell Bill that he is magical, after all.

That would feel too much like a confession.

\--

He changes his phone number a few months after he gets back home. Doesn't bother saving anybody's numbers on the new sim card, just his parents and a couple of people that think it's wonderful he's gotten back to reality. This way, at least, he can pretend that the silence is of his own making. He tells his parents it's because the number got out on the web, that fans were calling him, a few threatening him, because change takes time to accept and Jon was change for the band. Brent was normalcy. His parents are sympathetic and understanding, wondering at the lack of manners people have, and how they're so glad their own children are so much better behaved.

He's lying to them, one of the rare times since 11th grade when he got caught with weed and tried to lie his way out of it. His parents didn't believe him then, his eyes red-rimmed and dilated. It had been worth it though, sitting with the cooler kids at lunch and then going straight home to his two months of grounding. It wasn't even the pot, his dad said, a few days before the entire punishment was over. His dad had smoked pot during college, during high school--it was the lying. They needed to be able to trust him, know that he wasn't sneaking around or hiding things that might endanger him.

Brent had felt so grown up during that conversation, his dad sitting him down and doing the "man-to-man" talk. Explaining how his parents relied on him to communicate with them, to talk about the problems he was facing and how they could help. They didn't mind the pot (other drugs weren't an option, neither was alcohol) but he couldn't hide it. He couldn't go to his friends' houses and then come home intoxicated, drive home under the influence. He'd nodded, said that he understood.

So, he lies to his parents about fangirls calling his cell. He feels alone enough already without having them know that he's practically been abandoned, that nobody will touch him with a six-foot pole, that nobody will text him or facebook him. It's like he doesn't exist in that world anymore, and it's only been a little while , but he thought some of the friendships were stronger then that. He thought Ryan and Spencer and Brendon would have touched base, checked in, and seen how he was doing. They kicked him out of the band , and that was apparently the same as kicking him out of their life.

When he has the new number, Brent carefully scrolls through his sim card and methodically deletes every number that connected him to Decaydance. He deletes Pete and Patrick and Brendon and Spencer, and Spencer's mom, even though he swore he would always keep that number because Spencer's mom was practically a second mom to him--but she hadn't called him either, hadn't commiserated or asked how he was doing. He's been set adrift on a sea and the people who he thought would have his back have suddenly stabbed it.

He doesn't call the guys, doesn't send text messages or emails. He changes the password on his Hotmail to random letters that he doesn't write down. He cuts them out of his life.

He updates his facebook and MySpace at the same time, finally defriending the people who used to have his back before all else. He doesn't take pleasure in it; it actually hurts a little, but he knows he has to. He's had four months of acting like a spoiled child who didn't get his way, and it's time to move on. Time to realize that his old life doesn't exist anymore.

He's given them four months to contact him, four months of nervously checking his email address once a week and pouting via facebook. Four months to regret their decision, to miss his friendship. Four months is a long fucking time and there's been nothing but radio silence. Nothing but white noise , and Brent tries to be a good listener, but there's only so long he can listen to nothing and pretend.

Brent is a champion pretender; he's been good at it since grade school. So later that evening, after he's wiped out every method of contact and accepted that this really was a forever thing, when his mom asks if he's okay because his eyes are a little red and she thinks he might have been crying, Brent looks her in the eye and lies. He blames dust in the air from cleaning his room earlier, and maybe he feels a little ashamed, but not enough to tell the truth.

Not enough to crawl into her lap and cry because people who were supposed to accept him, to love him, didn't, and he thinks he might have fucked up one of the best things in his life. Thinks he might have thrown the baby out with the bath water, and he isn't sure who he is in the metaphor, but either way he's spiraling down the drain.

He knows he'll move on, that he's already started the entire process. He just didn't know it took so much effort.

\--

 

Brent's absorbed with his psychology homework, trying to write a thesis statement that doesn't completely suck ass, when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He grumbles but reaches down, tugs it out and stares at the screen. He doesn't recognize the number dancing across the screen, but that's not a surprise. He isn't wary about handing out his phone number, anymore--he scrawls it across the top of homework assignments and the margins of different textbooks. Different people--girls he flirts with, peeps who want his notes, the occasional person who doesn't follow music and isn't an asshole. People he might potentially call friends, eventually.

"Brent?"

"You got him."

"It's Pete."

"Pete?" Brent is confused for half a second trying to remember if there was a Pete in his biology class, or his psychology one. Brent can't remember the name of the guy he did his lab with last night, and he thinks that maybe he could have been a Pete if the lighting is right.

"From bio lab?" Brent questions. "Because seriously, my mitosis notes are pretty much shit and if you want to share yours, that'd be wonderful."

"No, um. Pete Wentz."

There's an awkward silence for a few seconds, at least a four-count and maybe even an eight. Brent doesn't know if he'll ever stop thinking in music. "Oh." Brent resists the urge to drum out the next silence, even if it's only against his thigh. He doesn't even bother wondering about how Pete got his number. Its Pete Wentz--that motherfucker could get Angelina's number without breaking a sweat.

"Look--" Brent can almost see Pete running his hand through his hair, see the tired eyes and the automatic smile. "Ryan's dad died."

Brent takes a deep breath--he hadn't been expecting that. "Shit, man. That sucks." Brent doesn't know why Pete is calling him, though.

"His plane lands in like, half an hour, and you need to pick him up from the airport."

"The fuck?" Brent is actually speechless.

"You're the only person there, idiot, that's not all parental and shit. Go get his ass."

And Pete hangs up. Actually fucking hangs up , and Brent is more than speechless, he's in shock. Pete Wentz called him just to tell him to pick up his former band mate from the airport because his former band mate's father died.

Before he can think better of it, Brent saves Pete's number under "dickface" and heads towards his car. He's not that much of an asshole to let Ryan have to deal with Las Vegas cabbies on top of his father's funeral.

\--

Part of him hopes that Ryan will just walk past him, not recognize the new Brent, the blond haired guy who doesn't wear elaborate clothing or make up or anything that would have been part of Panic!.

He hasn't considered that he might not recognize Ryan, still doesn't, not this thin man who has a world-weary look in his eyes, who hides behind the scarves around his neck. Ryan's always been spindly, but this is fucking ridiculous.

"Brent," Ryan's voice is hoarse, as if he'd spent most of the flight crying, or possibly sleeping directly under a heating vent. Heat always dries Ryan's throat out, makes him sound like shit. They used to have rules about where Ryan could sit in the van because of this, didn't want their backup singer to sound like shit when it was preventable.

"Ryan." Brent takes a second to nod at him, because fuck but he's going to act professional even if it kills him. "I'm parked in short term. Do we need to get your bag?" Brent turns towards the luggage area. He doesn't like sounding terse, but it's better than angry, or hurt.

"No," Ryan shakes his head. "Just--can we get out of here?"

"Sure."

\--

Brent isn't exactly sure what to make of this: that he drops everything he was doing just to go pick up a former band mate, former friend; that Pete Wentz still rules his life; that Brent can't fucking say no.

Before he can stop himself, he pulls his cell out and quickly taps in a message. _Ryan landed safely._ Pete would want to know.

Fuck, he's whipped.

\--

Ryan looks at him a lot during the ride to the hotel; he does it covertly, out of the corner of his eye, but Brent could always feel when Ryan was holding something back. Back before Pete, back when they were just friends playing music together in Summerlin and Ryan hadn't shown anyone his lyrics yet, Brent would have called him on it.

Ryan wouldn't share much with him, that was what Spencer was for, but he'd share something. A kernel of something that Brent would hoard because enough tiny pieces would give him a picture of Ryan's mind, of what he was thinking and how everything fit into his plan.

Brent learned early on that Ryan had plans for everything. He had secret plans to get them noticed; plans for scholarships to college; plans to ask pretty girls out to different dances. It had taken Brent a while, nearly two years, to figure out what all the plans had in common.

And it isn't ironic--Brent doesn't like that word after it was popularized by Alanis--but it is worth noting that all of the plans failed in the end. Because Ryan is still here, Ryan is in Brent's car and Brent is still driving him to the hotel so Ryan can attend his father's funeral in a couple of days.

After all of Ryan's plans to get the fuck away from his father, he still can't escape. Despite the fact that he's a famous rock star. Despite the hundreds of names he has saved in his Sidekick. Ryan can't escape his past, and fuck, but Brent never thought he'd be part of that past, too. That Ryan would ever want to escape him.

All the money in the world couldn't change what Ryan is now--a scared kid; a nervous, twitchy kid who doesn't know who he belongs to; a terrified kid who is going to have to bury his father in the hard summer ground and stand in the beating sun and sweat while trying not to cry.

A kid that's looking at Brent out of the corner of his eye and Brent doesn't have the energy now to call him on it. Instead he flicks the blinker on his car and merges into the fast lane, determined to deliver Ryan to the hotel safely and then fuck off back into the oblivion of community college.

He's doing Pete a favor, doing Ryan a favor, but somehow it tastes wrong in his mouth, kind of overly sweet, and Brent knows then that Panic made the right choice--it was either get rid of Brent or get rid of the entire band. They were growing up at two different rates , and somehow Brent became an adult while Ryan is still clinging to childhood illusions, to childhood fantasies. Being in a rock band was the stuff childhood dreams were made out of. Even if they were successful—it just wasn't real.

It might have helped if it had been Brent's dream to begin with, but he hadn't had a dream of his own. And Ryan and Spencer had been trying to help him when they lent Brent theirs for awhile. He'd held it close, tried to make it grow a little, put down roots, but in the end it had washed away in the craziness of touring life.

Brent has the beginnings of his own dream, now. He realizes that he can't ever escape his past, but if he tries really hard, he won't have to be defined by it, either.

When they pull into the hotel parking lot , Brent isn't acting professionally anymore—he's being professional. He says "goodbye" to Ryan, makes sure that Ryan has his new phone number, in case he needs something. He even debates giving Ryan a hug, but there's grown up and then there's masochistic.

Brent turns the cd player on as he leaves the parking lot, sings along to Toby Keith, and wonders when his life began to fucking make sense. It's not a feeling he's used to.

\--

Ryan's only in town for a couple of days, and Brent doesn't see him all that much. Brent goes to the funeral, but that's out of respect for who Ryan used to be, who Brent used to be. They'd been friends a lot longer than they'd been band mates. He offers to drop Ryan off at the airport, but Ryan shakes his head and says something about Spencer's parents.

Brent doesn't offer Ryan his new email address, doesn't give a eulogy or bring flowers for the grave, just disappears into his car and contemplates driving until forever, or at least until he runs out of gas. It's sort of romantic, the idea of driving off into the sunset and escaping his problems. But Brent knows now that he's grown up, knows that he's responsible for himself and his future, and that future requires a solid education.

Because fuck--he still has to figure out his bio notes, and possibly even remember his lab partner's name.

Life goes on.

\--

He isn't expecting a package, which makes the brown lump on his bed look even more suspicious. It's an Amazon box, so he figures it must be safe, and pokes at the corner of it with his finger before actually digging into the cardboard and ripping it open.

He definitely isn't expecting a textbook on mitosis to fall out, sit on his bed, and mock him. Or a--he looks at the package--[demonic mitosis Wii cover](http://www.amazon.com/Demonic-Mitosis-Nintendo-Protector-Sticker/dp/B00124N5PK/ref=sr_1_10?ie=UTF8&s=electronics&qid=1234811956&sr=1-10). He doesn't know who to think it's from, and when he spots a card laying by the textbook, he debates with himself. He debates if knowing is worth the pain, wonders if maybe it's an apology or a hope for a good future. He's scared that if he opens the card he'll see Spencer's familiar handwriting or Brendon's obnoxious smiley faces.

In the end he flips the card open and stares at the typed words:

_i always got mitosis and meiosis confused. good luck on the normal thing._

It isn't signed, but Brent doesn't expect miracles. Pete never did use capitals, anyway.

\--

Brent passes his psychology course, and his biology lab, but doesn't quite get it together enough to pass the biology lecture. He figures two out of three isn't bad, and that there is always next semester. He doesn't blame his tutor, either; Bill isn't a miracle worker and Brent learned more from him about how to craft an essay then he did from his 9th grade English teacher.

The school thing is kind of fun, too, in a way. He isn't normal, yet, but reality has less of an edge on it. He kind of remembers how to talk to people again, and while Anna Marie was a complete strike out, Becca from the food court might not be. She looks like the type of person who could get behind a good country song, anyway. And he has to make that be enough.

\--

He's in the middle of signing up for next quarter's classes when his mom interrupts him, sits down on his bed and taps the blanket beside her in a welcoming gesture. He swivels the chair but doesn't move, instead looks at her and smiles. It feels fake, but he's pretty sure it looks real.

Twenty minutes later , and all Brent knows is that his mom wants him to branch out, try something new. He's always hidden in music, known who he was when the bass was in his hands. She thinks that maybe he should try something else, give his fingers something to grasp onto, because she sees him strumming along to the country music. She suggests a language, maybe ASL, because it'll keep his fingers busy and languages look good on transfer applications.

Brent hasn't thought about transferring yet, hasn't thought about leaving the safety of his parent's home. It's only been six months and he still doesn't know what pieces are missing, let alone how to put them back together.

He decides to take a photography course, instead. Retaking biology can fucking wait.

\--

Sometimes, Brent wants to scroll through the list of people saved in his phone. He thinks back to when it used to be three times as long, when there was always someone to text inappropriate jokes to, or bug when he couldn't sleep. Now he stares at the ceiling and tries to count the different glow-in-the-dark stars left over from childhood; he becomes overly familiar with the number of sheep it takes to fall asleep; he thinks "what if" and "maybe" and "possibly" until the different futures blur together in his mind.

He doesn't reach for his cell phone; he wouldn't know who to text.

 

**One Year Later**

Brent has this tradition--he'll play country music and strum along with his imaginary guitar. He'll write bitching bass lines for songs that haven't been written, and he'll turn around and try to show them to Brendon before remembering that that part of his life had ended nearly two years ago. He's taken more classes at the community college; been dating Becca for nearly a year, and he still misses the guys like he's missing part of himself.

Becca doesn't know about any of it, thinks he's just a nice guy who was in a band for awhile before that didn't work out and he came back to Summerlin. She doesn't know how big they were, or how big they still are; doesn't even know the name Pete Wentz. She likes country music and classical; can play the violin and reminds him that schoolwork isn't evil. She has a pretty smile and knows how to use her mouth for good, not evil.

Brent has countless pictures of her smile: shots where she's biting her lip in concentration, shots where she's laughing and dancing to a nameless tune, shots where she doesn't know he's watching and her lips are just puckered a little bit and her eyes look far away and a little unfocused. Brent kept taking pictures of her, over and over again, because he knows that one of them will be perfect. He isn't trying to capture her soul, although she teases him about it a little bit and Brent doesn't have the heart to tell her that every time she opens her mouth and mentions it; every time she whispers and poses and just looks fucking beautiful and amazing--every time he captures her on film--he thinks about how the weight is wrong. How the camera doesn't fit his fingers perfectly, and how he's getting proficient at adjusting the lens but he'd still rather pluck out a chord and feel the tremble of bass strings under his fingers.

Becca's nearly perfect, and she's transferring to a school in Oregon now that she's finished her AA. Brent kind of wants to move with her, but she hasn't invited him along. She says that they'll talk over the phone, and text each other, and that just reminds Brent that he still has Pete's phone number saved (although by this point he's pretty sure it's not good anymore--he'd changed his number three times during one six-month period because of fans getting a hold of it, and Pete's fans were a lot crazier than Brent's.) She kisses him and it feels like a goodbye, like all his life ever is anymore is goodbye, and then she hugs him tight.

They keep in touch at first, texting every day and calling, but it gradually dies down. He still thinks about her at night, and knows that she thinks about him, but those two thoughts are separate, disjointed.

\-- 

The number on the display isn't familiar, and part of Brent doesn't want to answer it, but he knows he has to.

"Hello," he says before taking a sip of his blueberry smoothie.

"Fuck that," Pete says in reply.

"Who died this time?" Brent bites out, bitterness seeping into his voice. "That's the only reason you call, right , Wentz?"

"Fuck that," Pete returns. "Look, you gotta talk to Bryar."

"Who the hell is Bryar?"

"Bob Bryar, drummer from My Chem," Pete explains quickly. "He can't play anymore, his wrists gave out on him."

"That sucks."

"And none of his guys know what that feels like..."

"And I do," Brent finishes for Pete. "I know what it's like to have your world yanked out from under you feet, to try to readjust to normal."

"You know how to try." Pete's voice is soft.

"Fuck that, and fuck you." Brent hangs up.

Seconds later there's a text message buzzing across the screen, a phone number, and Brent knows he's going to call.

This time he saves Pete's number under Pete's actual name and marvels. He might have let go of the anger after all. He doesn't erase the _Dickface_ entry, though, instead he stares at it. Keeps it as a reminder of what Pete is capable of, of what _he_ is capable of, and mourns for the person he used to be.

The old Brent would have laughed at the entry; would have called Pete a douche when he answered the phone. Now he's resorted to typing insults he doesn't have the balls to send, and part of Brent thinks this isn't necessarily a good thing.

\--

The first phone call is awkward, trying to explain to Bob who he is and how Brent got his number, without sounding like an asshole. Pete doesn't warn Bryar ahead of time, and Brent isn't at the point where he feels comfortable calling Pete, either, not even to cuss him out.

The second and third calls are short, tiny things. The sound quality is shitty and Brent knows that Bryar is in Chicago, so he doesn't even think about it before he buys a plane ticket out there. He texts Pete and asks for the address, and isn't surprised when Pete responds seconds later, listing the address and smiley faces. Brent thinks about calling Bryar, warning him that he's on his way, but Brent's learned more then he wants to admit from Pete. Most of it involves getting shit for free, but there's a reason Brent doesn't even ask "how high" when Pete asks him to jump.

Pete took a chance on them, thought there was something in Spencer's shitty garage that might be something, and Brent hopes deep down that maybe Pete still sees something worth taking a chance on in him. Pete has killer instincts, and it's selfish as fuck, but Brent wants to be worthy of those instincts.

So he doesn't warn Bryar, doesn't text him or call him or just mentally send thoughts towards Chicago. Instead he heads downstairs and tries to think of a way that he can explain this, make it make sense to his parents, because his parents not only ask "how high" but other questions, parental type questions, like "why" and "if Pete jumps off a cliff, will you jump off a cliff too?"

Brent doesn't answer the second question out loud, but he knows that he wouldn't even hesitate, just walk off and try to catch up with Pete because he probably has some type of parachute or other safety devise secreted away on his person. Pete's just that cool.

\--

Brent shows up on Bob's door step with a duffle bag in one hand and a cell phone in the other, determined to get let in even if he has to call Pete and make Pete call Mikey and make Mikey call Bob. Brent did his homework on the plane, he listened to the My Chemical Romance albums and figured out exactly who Bryar was. He'd broken his self-imposed restrictions and listened to rock music for the first time in forever. And he doesn't feel like strumming along with his own bass, which is a good thing. He hadn't packed it, anyway.

Before he left Vegas, he'd wikipediad the shit out of one Robert Bryar. Brent takes what he reads with a grain of salt, however, because he's fairly sure that Bryar didn't have any assbabies with Brian Schechter (and Brent spend a good amount of time trying to find out who Brian Schechter even was), he's not as sure that Bob hadn't once been in a committed relationship with Jepha Howard.

Brent finds out that Bob plays the drums hard, apparently hates being photographed, and that Frank Iero considers Bob to be his personal jungle gym. This of course leads to Brent googling Frank Iero, but the less said about that the better. Brent still blushes when he thinks about the immediate physical reaction he'd had to the tattooed man.

When Bob answers the door, Brent doesn't even give him a chance to say anything, just pushes in and drops his bag on the ground and slides his cell phone into his pocket.

Maybe he's better at this normal thing than he gave himself credit for.

\--

They don't talk for the first couple of days, which isn't as awkward as Brent thought it would be. Brent walks the dogs and lets Bob sulk for a bit; he orders pizza and makes sure that Bob eats at least a slice. He answers Bob's phone and takes messages, reassuring everyone that calls that Bob isn't lying dead in a gutter somewhere , but rather is enjoying a relaxing bath or a massage or whatever shit Brent feels like making up.

He wasn't even thinking about Panic! when he fields a call from "Spencer," and maybe he should have been, because hearing Spencer's voice after such a long time is like a punch in the gut.

"Bob Bryar's phone, Brent speaking," he answers automatically.

"Brent?" Spencer's voice is confused.

"Spencer." Brent's voice is clipped, short. He isn't still angry, he'd gotten over that years earlier, but he doesn't like being reminded of what he'd given up.

"How's--" Spencer trails off. "How are you?"

Brent thinks about not answering, debates being a jerk, but then sighs. He doesn't answer right away, instead takes a deep breath and lets it out, counts to ten in his head. "I'm doing good. Things are normal, ya know?"

Spencer clearly doesn't know what Brent means, the silence speaks volumes, but-- "I didn't realize you knew Bryar," Spencer finally replies.

"I didn't. Pete asked me to help out," Brent explains, and yes, he can tell that's a surprise to Spencer, that Pete keeps in touch with Brent (if you can call two awkward conversations where Pete asks Brent for favors he hasn't earned actual conversations). Spencer sucks in a deep breath and Brent is about to say something, anything, to get them over this--thing, when Spencer continues:

"Oh."

The silence isn't as awkward this time, mostly because Brent knows it's his turn to say something, his turn to put himself out there. He isn't sure he wants to know the answer, but still he asks: "How are the guys?"

The one conversation starter that Spencer can't ignore. "Brendon's still a hyper little shit." Spencer's voice sounds rough, but Brent doesn't let himself think about it, about what it could mean. "Ryan--he--"

"I know about his dad." Brent bites the inside of his lip, thinks interrupting Spencer was a careless mistake. Now they're going to have to talk about it, about Ryan, and while Brent had asked about how they're doing, that doesn't mean he really wants to actually _know_ how they're doing.

He should have just hung up the phone like any sane person would do when confronted with the past.

"Yeah, he uh--" Spencer stumbles over his words for a minute, and Brent knows that wherever Spencer is, his fingers are twitching relentlessly, and he's probably blinking really fast as well. "He said you were there for him, at the funeral." Brent knows that the band had wanted to be there, Ryan had let it slip during their awkward car ride, but he also knows that work and life sometimes get in the way of desires.

"Yeah, well--" Brent doesn't say anything after that. Doesn't say that he's not a douche bag, that he doesn't abandon people he cares about, even if he's really mad at them. And it's almost a revelation, that Brent still cares about Ryan, about Spencer, about Brendon, except for how it's not. Those three belong under his skin, permanently, and he thinks absently that if he ever gets a tattoo, it would be something Panic! related, even though it's years later now, and thousands of miles apart.

Spencer is muttering on the other end of the phone, and Brent feels sorry for him, for at least half a second, before he remembers that this is the man that told him he wasn't good enough, that that band couldn't carry his sorry ass anymore. And yes, okay, so Brent imagined most of that wording. In reality it was polite and distant and Brent knows it must have been hard for them to say, just like it was hard for him to hear, but the beauty of memory is that you can alter it, change it, make it so it's exactly as you want it.

"I gotta go," Brent interrupts Spencer's mutterings, nods to himself even though he knows that Spencer can't see him. "I'll tell Bob that you called, okay?"

And before Spencer can answer, Brent is hanging up the phone. He spends the next few minutes idly tracing a design into his skin, right above his wrist. He isn't consciously thinking about it, but when he stops he realizes it had been an exclamation mark.

\--

"You're getting up today." Brent looks at Bob with motivated eyes. "I've let you sulk for nearly a week, which is one more day than my parents gave me after Panic! kicked me out."

"Fuck off," Bob responded.

"No, you're seriously getting up. You have to show me where the nearest community college is, because I'm going to go stir crazy if I don't do something, and I need to make up a biology credit."

"You're in college?"

"Yeah." Brent nods. "Nearly got my AA, just need to make up my Biology class. Then I'm going to transfer and get a degree in like, Psychology."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Brent continues, "I want to be a high school counselor, help kids, ya know?"

"That's cool."

"Yeah." Brent smiles to himself. "It really kind of is."

\--

The community college isn't as nice as the one in Nevada, doesn't feel like home, doesn't smell like desert or feel humid hot sweaty. Instead there are teens wandering around, looking a little lost and a lot high, and nothing about it feels familiar and that, more than anything, is a relief for Brent. He's been so focused on moving on with his life, on giving up the extraordinary and learning to live with the regular that this feels like a brand new adventure. It's only been a few days but already he can feel a difference in the way he's walking.

He doesn't think about Becca much, doesn't think about what he left behind. Instead, there's only an open road and a crowded sky, buildings where he's used to clouds, and people where he's used to empty spaces. No strip malls or slot machines rumbling into the night; instead the El keeps him company during the early evening hours, tumbling down the tracks on a regular basis and it's almost musical enough to lull Brent to sleep.

\--

"You're getting up today, too." Brent pokes Bob in the side. "You have physical therapy, and your doctor has called four times to make sure you're actually going to be there this time."

"Fuck off," Bob responds.

"Look, I know it sucks that you're not going to be able to play the drums, but you do like having some feeling in your fingers, right?" Brent is merciless. "You do enjoy being able to cut up your own food and being able to hold your own dick when you pee?"

And Bob nods, because those are all definitely activities that he enjoys, and damn Brent for reminding him of that fact.

"So, get up!"

\--

Bob makes amazing lasagna. He doesn't cook a lot, and never alone, but his lasagna was worth Brent facing the kitchen for. Thick, bubbly cheese and marinara sauce, sliced veggies and creamed spinach. Brent had commented the first time about making sure there was lots of meat in it--hamburger and sausage. Bob says no quickly to that request, instead explains that he stole the recipe from Iero, the veggie-loving bastard, and adding meat to it would be sacrilegious. Brent doesn't mind; vegetables were good for you, supposedly.

Bob is hesitant the first time he makes it; he dislikes having to ask for help, especially for something that used to be so easy. But Brent doesn't put much stock in embarrassment, figuring getting kicked out a band that he helped start is pretty much the ultimate in horror stories, and nothing else comes close. He tells Bob this, during that first week. Just lays it out there and waits for the vultures to pick at his bones.

Bob isn't a vulture, though. Brent appreciates that about him.

After the first time in the kitchen, Brent begins to help Bob in other ways. When Bob can't wash his hair thoroughly enough, isn't really able to dig into his scalp with the shampoo, Brent begins pre-applying it for him. Brent had learned that trick during summer camp, when showers were four-minute timed affairs and if he wanted time to jerk off he had to wash his hair extra fast.

Bob is slow on the computer as well, hunting-and-pecking for the different keys because it hurts to hold his hands in the normal position. Brent creates a favorites list, organized by category, and doesn't blush at all when it comes to bookmarking Bob's porn sites of choice. Most of them are hetero, featuring tiny girls with big breasts and fake smiles, but after a while Bob begins to trust Brent with the good ones--gay porn, gang bangs--all the kinky shit that he's been dying to see but hates having to Google for.

Brent doesn't say a word about it, just keeps replacing the box of tissues that sits on the computer desk whenever it runs out.

And when Bob tries saying thanks, tries to explain how grateful he is, Brent cracks a joke and asks if Bob can write his damn passwords down, because a couple of those sites were really fucking hot and Brent wouldn't mind being able to see some of the action. Two days later there's a Post-it stuck to the side of the monitor, written in horribly cramped handwriting that makes Brent think about essay tests, about struggling to get his thoughts across in a timed session when he hadn't even finished the book in question, but this time he smiles when he sees the handwriting. He doesn't thank Bob for it, he knows that would be awkward, but he does start spending more time in the office.

They don't hang a gym sock on the door knob, they're not in college, but eventually the two of them work out a system. Brent is a morning person, Bob prefers later in the evening. If the door is closed it's assumed that privacy is required. This goes on for close to two weeks before Brent disappears one afternoon, turning up hours later with a bag from the Apple Store.

It turns out the Airport Extreme is ridiculously easy to install, and this way they can have music throughout the house (even if it is Taylor Swift or Rascal Flatts, occasionally Tim McGraw) and masturbate in the privacy of their rooms. Sure, Brent had to buy a laptop, and then go back out with Bob and help him pick out one, but Brent feels a little accomplished with the entire project. It's like he's finally entering the 21st century, and dragging Bob along with him. For half a second it's the two of them against the world, and that is a feeling Brent can get behind.

Brent wonders if this is what having a brother is like, but then pushes that thought to the back of his mind. Some of the thoughts he's had about Bob really aren't all that familial in nature, anyway. And incest so isn't his kink.

\--

After awhile it begins to be a pattern--Brent forces Bob out of bed and they spend the day together, doing random shit. Brent still answers Bob's phone, because he's not in any shape to talk to the guys (he's told them to go ahead and get another drummer, he's apologized for his wrists being crap, but he hasn't talked with them since, even if Brent did say they weren't mad at him).

When Brent's biology class starts, he makes Bob sit through it with him, if only so Bob can explain the difference between mitosis and meiosis and actually get Brent to understand. Bob goes to every therapy appointment scheduled, and he doesn't tell Brent much about it, but Brent knows that silence isn't necessarily bad. Besides, Brent would be fucking silent as shit if he had to sit down to pee, and he doesn't know if Bob is that bad off, but he can't imagine asking Bob about it, either.

Bob makes Brent focus--encourages him to actually study. Bob is a big fan of flashcards, and even though he isn't taking the class for a grade, Bob insists on using the damn things.

\--

So when Brent finishes his biology course, realizes he's been in Chicago for nearly three months and already has an acceptance letter from University of Chicago sitting on the nightstand next to the bed, he's a little excited.

He's ready to party and celebrate and go wild; Bob looks at him and suggests a pizza, maybe a movie or two. Nothing wild or insane, but instead a cozy evening in.

Brent agrees without a thought, dials Gino's East, and fuck but he loves Chicago deep dish, pepperoni and sausage under a thick coat of sauce and cheese. It's not a party, but it is a celebration. The two sit on the couch and watch cheap action movies that have little plot except hot girls and explosions, and bitch about the decline of the movie industry.

After awhile Bob pulls his laptop out and settles in, pulling up YouTube with a familiar click of the mouse. Brent curls up next to him, leaning into Bob's side, ready to watch whatever clips have made it into Bob's top ten of the day. He's seen a variety of the clips over the past few months—people falling off stage, hurting themselves, generally being stupid. One of his favorites is a guy getting hit in the balls with a baseball from one of those automatic pitching machines

Brent moans in solidarity every time he watches the clip, but his eyes also dance and laugh, and Bob has this full body chortle that manages to be both empathetic and incredulous at the same time. Brent almost swears it's magic, but he's not Brendon and unicorns don't exist. Bob's just special, is all.

This isn't Brent's ideal celebration, but he's comfortable and life has settled a bit. Become predictable and warm, fuzzy like a coat that's worn and comfortable, stretched a little.

Brent's fingers rub the side of his thigh, brush over the cell phone that's lodged permanently his right pocket. He's got it out in his hand before he's even conscious of reaching into his pocket. The pads of his fingers rub over the numbers as he debates with himself.

It would only take a second to text Pete, to thank him (just a tiny bit) because Brent feels more alive now than he did in Nevada and it's mostly all because of Pete--Pete with his instincts and his way of taking chances and just having them magically work out. Pete's either the luckiest fucker in the world, or he has secrets that he's never told anyone about, probably not even Patrick. Magical secrets of a Harry Potter nature, and Brent chuckles to himself, thinking about Pete in wizarding robes with a pointy stick that does tricks, and he's smiling because if Pete's lucky, then Brent's lucky too. Brent's lucky to have crossed paths with him and somehow made an impression.

As Brent debates this, Bob reaches over. His fingers close over the cell phone and push it down towards Brent's lap. He's shaking his head, and Brent respects that, can understand exactly why Bob doesn't want the cell out, doesn't want the reminder of the real world right now, when their own fantasy is being played out in a two-story condo with a soundproofed basement.

Brent grins at Bob and nods in agreement. He puts the cell phone away and turns back towards the laptop, eager to see what clip is playing now.

\--

The first course Brent takes at University of Chicago is a Sociology of Childhood class. He figures if sociology was all but invented at the school, he should at least explore it a little bit. Figure out what all the hype is about, see if it's something he likes or if it's just as BS as he thinks it might be.

Psychology has a science behind it, brain chemistry and organic compounds. Biology and drugs. Sociology just seems to be about studying people, guessing about things, imprecise and not tangible. Brent always did prefer things he could put his fingers on.

But it's part of being an adult, part of the growing up deal he's in the middle of exploring. Taking chances, trying something new. Brent also knows that part of moving on with his life is letting go of the past. He isn't an alcoholic, but he doesn't drink; he isn't an addict, but he's surrounded himself with enough addictive personalities in the past to make him cautious now. He doesn't talk to the guys from Panic, but he thinks he could; it might be awkward and stilted, he might wish he'd never started the conversation, but he's pretty sure he could have it.

So when Brent meets an emo boy in his Sociology of Childhood course, his first thought isn't _must avoid_. Instead words like _cute_ and _comfy_ pass through his mind, and he doesn't know the band on the sweatshirt the boy is wearing, which makes it all the better.

Brent doesn't approach the boy, not at first. He watches from afar and wonders what the boy is listening to on his iPod when he dances to his chair; he wonders what he's drawing in his notebook; he wonders what is inked across his skin; loves the shadows as they dance across Emo-Boy's arms and fingers, dipping into wrinkles and crevices and highlighting the calluses that make Brent wonder what instrument the boy plays. There's no way that he doesn't—Brent doesn't even accept that as part of the reality.

Bryar thinks the whole thing is hilarious, and doesn't let a moment pass without teasing the shit out of Brent for falling for an emo boy. Bryar's teasing only gets worse when Brent finds out his name: Mikey.

He isn't Mikeyway, isn't secretly a bassist for a famous group, and doesn't have a penchant for drawing unicorns. When Brent finally gets the nerve to sit next to him, to steal a glance at the pictures, it's landscapes and seascapes and skyscapes that greet him. Pictures of the future and the past and what was and what might have been. It turns out the kid is interested in architecture, historical and modern. He likes talking about social theory, and in his free time he dances like no one is watching, even when all eyes are glued to him.

Brent's quiet around him, pensive. Mikey reminds him a bit too much of the past, but at the same time he can't get enough. Their first kiss is short, a quick press of lips against one another in the middle of a discussion regarding social theory. Brent is trying to keep his head above water, theory's never been his thing, but Mikey is in his element. He likes piecing together a story from bits and pieces of half-remembered thoughts and garbled words.

He likes figuring things out.

That should have been Brent's first clue, but Brent is an idiot sometimes, and he doesn't see what's right in front of his face. Instead he sees a future filled with sweatshirts and messy kisses, boxers left on the floor of the bathroom and partially obscured by the towels left on top of them.

If the imagined scene looks like Brent's current home, he's not talking.

\--

Brent doesn't like thinking about it, but he still earns royalties from the Panic! songs he helped write, that he performed. Every time they're played in concert, every time someone buys a cd.

That's what pays for his college applications, and the tuition, because University of Chicago is a private school, and as such, fucking expensive. That's what's paying for his school books and his school supplies and the groceries every other week, because he and Bob take turns with that shit. He doesn't pay rent because Bob won't let him, but utilities are fair game.

And all of that is because of Panic. All of that is because of how well the band that he left is doing, and he isn't jealous because he genuinely likes his life, likes living with Bob and going to school and knowing if he wants to, he can get back into that life, but he doesn't want to. He really likes being Normal.

He tries talking to Bob about this, but Bob is pretty much a silent guy. They're friends, they play Wii together (and their Wii has an amazing mitosis skin on it that Brent doesn't ever really explain); Bob listens to Brent attempt to play the bass, but he was never good at playing alone, and it feels like too much of the past. Brent helps Bob in the small ways that Bob lets him, but they don't really _talk_ to each other. And that's okay.

But Brent still wants to know how Bob deals with it, how Bob can reconcile living off something that he's not a part of anymore. So when Gerard shows up one day, out of the blue, and lands on Bob's doorstep, Brent knows he's going to get the answer, even if he never asked for it.

\--

Gerard stays for a few hours, during which time Bob does numerous things: he pays the electricity bill; goes to physical therapy; walks Dixie around the block; watches countless episodes of Flight of the Conchords with Brent; and speaks to Gerard a grand total of one time.

Gerard spends the few hours doing remarkably similar things: he goes with Bob to pay the electricity bill (actually walks him to the mailbox); sits in the waiting room outside of the physical therapy office; follows behind Dixie on her walk; laughs along with countless episodes of Flight of the Conchords; and actually talks with Bob four times. Bob only replies once, but that is a victory by itself.

And when Gerard leaves, he hugs Bob tightly before hugging Brent. And he whispers "thank you" in Brent's ear like Brent's actually doing something important, like he is somebody important.

Brent could get used to that.

\--

When five months pass and Bob is beginning to look human again, eating regular meals and bitching about whatever there is to bitch about, Brent thinks that maybe his work there is done. He doesn't want to leave Chicago, he's gotten used to the cold and the snow, and he thinks he'd miss Bryar a bit too much for comfort, but he doesn't want to stay as an uninvited house guest, either.

Bob and he have been getting along, it's not that. It's just--Chicago is Bob's and Vegas is Brent's. He's not sure there's room in the city for two failed musicians who used to be something, and a thousand and one who haven't even gotten that far. Chicago is a city of people with dreams, and Brent's dream was never his to begin with, he was just along for the ride. So he pouts for a bit, thinks it over, calls his mom and talks it out.

One thing to come out of the entire fiasco is his relationship with his mother. They were always close, but now they're connected. He can't explain it really, it's just--before he could tell her something and she'd listen. Now she asks questions and knows what he's not saying, too.

She's happy when he tells her of Mikey; ecstatic over his sociology courses. Brent think she might love Bob a little and he'd feel nervous if he didn't know that his dad was in the next room over, watching football and cheering loudly when his team scores, cursing the ref out and arguing with the television when the play sours. His mom doesn't like football, banished it to the den years ago.

It's that thought that makes Brent realize he's going to stay. Besides the fact that he's comfortable in his college, besides the fact that he's happy with Mikey and their relationship, he can see himself, years from now, banishing Bob to the other room to watch his YouTube clips and smiling at the laughter as it carries through the house.

It's a bit scary how close to home that future seems, how reasonable and normal and necessary it's beginning to feel.

Instead of talking about it, instead of curling up into Bob's side and talking about what they're doing, what they've become—instead of doing what is expected and normal, Brent texts Pete. They don't talk much, but Pete was the one that got him into this mess and fuck, Pete would be the one to get him out of it. _Need an apartment in Chi-town. Moving here._

There isn't an instant response, but Brent wasn't expecting one. He doesn't know where Pete is, and it takes a while to pull apartments out of your ass, anyway.

\--

Brent speaks to his mom twice a week, like clockwork. He tells her about his classes, about Bob's therapy, and about Mikey. Mikey, who he hadn't been expecting; Mikey, who was beginning to remind him of what he used to be; Mikey, who dressed in old sweatshirts and painted on jeans and shoes with sparkles on them because he liked the way they glittered in the sunlight.

He tells her about their first date, coffee grabbed in between classes at this local place Mikey likes. The coffee's steaming hot and the barista makes a pretty design when pouring the espresso into Brent's steamed milk. It's sheet music, music notes, dancing across the blank canvas. He almost felt guilty pouring sugar into the cup and stirring it around, didn't want to ruin the image. Mikey took his phone out and took a picture of it, instead, then emails it to Brent.

His mom calls it sweet.

Their second date is much the same, coffee grabbed between class and work. Mikey has a shift at 4:00, and Brent doesn't exactly know where he works, just that he loves his job.

Brent's mom thinks it's wonderful.

They progress to make out sessions by the fourth date, holding one another up against the sides of buildings, classrooms they know they're going to have to enter in a few minutes, after hastily readjusting their clothing. Brent feels like a teenager, constantly aroused with nothing to show for it except a strong right hand. He loves it.

Brent's mom doesn't find out about this, though. Some things are better kept close to the chest.

\--

It's been five months, but Bob still won't talk to his band mates. Won't accept their phone calls or emails. Brent thinks back to the first few months after Panic, thinks about how much he craved the contact. How he waited for it for hours and minutes and days and how it never came and part of him is still pissed, still upset. When Gerard showed up at their door, Bob had taken one look at him and walked away. Brent ended up inviting him in and trying to explain.

He explained about Panic, about how they were friends, more than a band, and the band ended up coming first and being the only thing that was important, the only thing that Spencer and Ryan and Brendon cared about in the end. The only thing that mattered and Brent resents it a little, even now. Gee had nodded at this, looked interested, but at the same time dismayed because he didn't want Bob to feel that way about them. They all still care about it, all still want him in their lives. If they thought it would be at all beneficial for him, Bob would have a permanent spot in the tour bus and become their sound guy, their tour manager, their live-in friend.

Gee left a few hours later, after hugging Brent and hugging Bob (even if Bob looked itchy as fuck, trying to squirm away).

Brent tries hard not to resent the friendship that the My Chem guys still offer out. Tries hard not to resent that Bob doesn't have to go through everything alone, not to resent that the My Chem guys are actually good people, that they care about Bob more than the band. There hasn't been a day gone by that one of them don't try to call him. Brent can recognize their voices, the style of the text messages.

Mikeyway would text Bob nonstop during different television shows, sharing what was happening, and Bob would snort but never respond.

Brent thought that Ray was the one who sent the YouTube links, the person who chose the most humiliatingly funny scenes and marked them, put together a list and forwarded it. Bob would always watch the videos, always laugh, always pull Brent close and show the clips off.

But he never actually responded, never said thanks.

Frank has always communicated via his tattoos, and there's a new one on his leg. Bob showed it to him--a little drum that was broken, kinda maybe sort of shaped like a heart if he squints at it the right way--and Brent nearly hit Bob when he saw that, dialed the numbers and was half a second from holding the phone to Bob's ear but in the end didn't because he knows how he felt after Panic. He can only imagine how Bob feels, because as much as it hurt Brent, it was probably a blessing in disguise that the guys didn't try to call him.

To be constantly reminded about what you lost, to constantly have people trying to stay in touch when all you wanted to do was sulk and move on.

One afternoon, when Bob's at the grocery store, Brent dials the familiar numbers and holds his breath as the phone rings.

"Bob?" Frank sound's excited, like he really can't believe that Bob's calling him, actually reaching out.

"No—sorry." Brent apologizes, because he didn't mean for that to happen, didn't want to get Frank's hopes up. "It's ah—Brent."

Frank sighs a bit.

"I'm a friend of Pete's…" And Brent is, he realizes as he says this, he is a friend of Pete's.

"I know who you are," Frank replies.

"Look, I just wanted to tell you that Bob saw your tattoo. He gets Ray's YouTube videos, and laughs at Mikey's texts."

"I know. I've known Bob for a long fucking time—I know he's getting the stuff, and he's checking it out."

"Um, okay." Brent hangs up the phone a few seconds later, more upset with himself than he would care to admit. He automatically cast the MCR guys as the bad ones in this equation, the ones who didn't know how to stop pressing. He made them Spencer and Ryan and Brendon, and that pisses him off a little. Just because his guys turned out to be assholes doesn't mean that Bob's are, and it's a lesson that Brent needed to learn.

When Bob gets back from the store, Brent helps him put the groceries away. He doesn't say a word about the phone call, about his realization. He just puts the yogurt into the fridge and smiles in thanks when Bob hands him the newest copy of National Geographic (he really loves the pictures).

\--

"Pete says you're moving here." Bob pulls a beer out of the fridge and holds out for Brent to open it.

"Yeah, well." Brent opens the bottle and hands it back to Bob, along with a beer cozy to keep the moisture off Bob's fingers because otherwise he'd drop it.

"I have a lot of space." The offer is implied, the friendship a known entity.

"Don't you want your life back?" Brent asks. "Don't you want your space back, without having this loser guy who used to be in a band in it?"

"I used to be in a band, too," Bob responds. "At least you can still play."

"But I don't."

Bob nods at this. "No, you don't."

It doesn't get mentioned again, but Brent stops looking for apartments, instead asks his mom to box up his belongings and ship them to Bryar's address. There is plenty of room, and Brent's pretty sure the basement is soundproofed, which would be good for playing.

\--

 

Brent starts texting Gerard after his visit--sharing little details about Bob's day, telling Gee what they did or who they annoyed. The two of them are a force to be reckoned with, for all that they're silent motherfuckers. Brent has a sense of pure comedic timing, and Bob isn't a slouch when it comes to comebacks.

And when Gee starts texting back, telling Brent how My Chem is doing with their replacement drummer, and how much they all wish Bob would at least come record with them (because he's an honest guy above all else and would tell them straight-up if the music was whack--and that's the word Gerard uses—whack), Brent does his best to pass the information along in as easy a manner as possible.

He knows that Bob can't go watch My Chemical Romance record, knows that the hole where My Chem used to fit isn't nearly fixed, maybe it's patched a bit and starting to scar over, but one good solid "whap" will have blood oozing out, and Bob's had enough bleeding in his life.

Brent doesn't know when he starts protecting Bob instinctively, but the text messages that Gerard sends bring it to the forefront. And, hesitant as Brent is to admit it, he kind of likes having it there. It fills a little piece of what he's missing.

\--

When Brent talks to his mom now, he tells her about Chicago and school and Bob and what they're doing that day. He talks to her about how he thinks he's ready to start listening to music again, and how he even has iTunes on his new computer, even if there's nothing in it except country and the occasional pop song. Brent secretly really likes Destiny's Child, and Bob doesn't mind them blasted throughout the house.

When she ask about Bob, and how he's doing, Brent tells her about the exercises that he helps Bob out with, how Bob needs to squeeze different things a few times a day and lift weights, and how he totally can't hold drum sticks yet (they're too narrow) but they have this improvised system down where Bob gets to bang away at hand drums for twenty minutes a day, no matter what, and Brent has to sit there and play his bass twenty minutes a day, too.

Together they're trying to find a way to coexist with music, with what they've been missing and what they're still looking for. Music won't be able to fill every hole, but together they're trying, which is more than what Brent has done on his own.

\--

Brent doesn't think about Panic as often, anymore. He goes days without wondering why the bass isn't in his hands; he goes minutes without feeling empty and desolate. His cell phone is always on and he doesn't check it obsessively, just lets it rest against his thigh and feels the pressure and it's good, gentle; he enjoys being in contact with the outside world and he'd be lying if he said that he missed changing his number constantly because people got a hold of it.

Sometimes he thinks about Brendon, when he goes to the Disney store and sees a limited release copy of _Aladdin_ or _The Little Mermaid._ He's still tempted to put it on the checkout counter and buy it, send it over because he knows that Bden would smile, and his smile is like magic. He doesn't; he stuffs his hands in his pockets and thumbs his cell phone and just keeps walking.

He calls Pete now, every couple of months and just shoots the shit. Talks about school and how it's going; talks about living with Bob and why it seems to be working out in his favor; talks about anything and everything that crosses his mind and fuck, he's totally made Pete his therapist and it _works_, which isn't as surprising as it should be. Pete's forgotten more about how to be sane than most people even know in their entire lives. Pete listens and provides color commentary, talks about Patrick and life on the road and brings up enough of the unpleasantness that Brent feels like he's the lucky one.

Brent feels as if he's the one that somehow has life worked out, and he wouldn't change anything, not now. He's enjoying school and keeps thinking about helping kids, and he doesn't really think music would ever have provided the same release. He has these ideas, wants to open up a nonprofit that will turn the world on its ear, because he does miss being famous a little bit, but not enough to seek it out. He thinks that maybe doing good work and helping people will be enough. It has to be; it's all he has going for him right now.

\--

 

"Yo." Bob pokes him in his shoulder, hard. Brent lifts his head lazily, peers out through half-lidded eyes and wonders why Bob is waking him up. The kitchen table isn't as comfortable as his bed, but the textbooks laid out in front of him clearly indicate he's been studying, and that is something. He wasn't sleeping, anyway, he was just resting his eyes, and fuck but that's what he needed to do.

"Mikey called," Bob says. "I told him you were sleeping, but he wants you to call him back." Brent nods, blinks, and thinks about laying his head back down. He has a test tomorrow in another General Education course, and he really doesn't want to think about how much he's screwed, at least a little bit.

\--

When Mikey started talking about coming over, about meeting the roommate, Brent had a tiny panic attack. Mikey was into the scene, he know the big bands and definitely had a few My Chemical Romance patches on his backpacks. It had been pure luck that he didn't know who Brent was, who he used to be, and to invite Mikey into his house, into his life--it was a bit of a quandary.

 

Logically Brent knew that he had to, that if he wanted anything with Mikey to be successful, if he wanted to keep seeing him and touching him and kissing him and sitting next to him in class and just enjoying the moments that matter, he'd have to take the plunge and introduce Mikey to Bob. And he also knew, logically, that it might be the last thing he ever did as well. Because Mikey would ask how Brent knew Bob, and Brent would have to tell him everything.

 

And that scared the shit out of him.

 

So, one day, after Sociology of Childhood class when Mikey was talking about how it would be really fucking awesome to go see the new X-men movie that evening and maybe check out the Thai restaurant that a friend of his had mentioned, Brent nodded along. He smiled and held Mikey's hand and said "why don't you pick me up at my place? I'll see if my roommate wants to come along, too. He loves watching shit blow up."

 

Mikey's eyes widened for a few seconds before he calmed down and nodded, playing it off as if it wasn't the biggest move either of them had made in this two-month-long relationship. "That'd be cool." Mikey smiled. "I'd love to meet the elusive bastard that got you to move to Chi-town."

 

"Yeah, well." Brent blushed a little. "He's been wanting to meet you, too."

 

\--

 

"Get your ass down here, Bryar!" Brent shouted up the stairs, nervously adjusting the bottom of his hoodie for the sixth time. "Mikey's gonna be here in a few minutes and I want to get the drama over with!"

 

"Fuck, Wilson--" Bob's voice sounded from upstairs. "I'm trying to get dressed for your date. Gotta look smart."

 

"He's with me, ass. He's not going to get swept away by your manly presence," Brent jokes.

"You never know," Bob replies, walking down the stairs. "He might see all of this and think: why am I with that schlep Brent again? Especially when I can have this manly man Bob fucking Bryar."

 

Brent starts laughing, hard. "Like you would know what to do with a dick that isn't your own."

 

"I have been on a bus with Gerard and Frank. I know exactly what to do with someone else's dick, fuck; I'm scarred by the memories."

 

Brent smiles, happy that Bob finally feels comfortable enough to start talking about his band. "Dude, I've been on a bus with Ryan and Brendon. Don't talk to me about scar-worthy memories."

 

"But now you're making your own." Bob is grinning hellishly. "Our little Brent is growing up!"

"Fuck you, too," Brent retorts.

There's a nervous tension in the air. Brent can feel it practically dancing across his skin, a live wire he knew he'd be burned with sooner or later, and he wonders if maybe later has finally arrived in the form of a ringing doorbell and a nervous stomach that seems to be made up mostly of butterflies and other anxious creatures.

"Want me to get the door?" Bob asks, the laughter gone from his voice. He knows that tonight isn't really about him but about Brent and how he feels about his past.

"No." Brent shakes his head, trying to clear the thoughts. "Go sit in the living room, I'll bring Mikey in."

"Still think it's weird that he's a Mikey. Mikey agrees b-t-w." That makes Brent pause a second, because he's still not used to Bob talking to the My Chem guys, especially not used to it being mentioned casually in passing. But now isn't the time to reflect on that and Brent turns away from Bob.

"Mikey talks in text-speech and thinks hoodies look ridiculously cute on kittens." Brent moves towards the front entryway. "Go sit your ass down, Bryar."

 

\--

 

Brent's anxious while he opens the door, nervous about the conversations he knows the evening will bring. Mikey's standing on the front stoop, looking equally tense. When he sees Brent, though, his eyes light up, and Brent leans over and kisses him because Mikey looks cute when he's happy; adorable, really. He's wearing a hoodie and jeans, casually dressed, and Brent loves Mikey in hoodies. He reminds Brent of too many scene kids at too many concerts, hoping to get a little closer to the music because that's what they care about, more than anything.

"Mmmm," Mikey moans a few seconds later. "You always know how to say hi."

And it's cheesy as hell, but Brent blushes a little and replies, "you make it easy." And then he's ushering Mikey inside and the nervous butterflies in his stomach aren't gone, but they aren't fluttering around as much either. It's started and there's nothing Brent can do at this point but be honest and just hope for the best.

 

He's holding Mikey's wrist, leading him into the living room, and there's a few seconds where Mikey's looking at Bob and his eyes are widening a bit, but not really enough to give Brent a handle on the situation.

 

"You know you have Bob Bryar in your living room, right?" Mikey asks, jokingly. "If I had a hot drummer in my living room, I'd be nervous about introducing him to my boyfriend, too."

 

And the tension is dispelled a bit and Bob's standing up, coming forward. "Yeah, well, not everyone is as mad-talented as Brent here," and he's laughing a bit. "Nice to meet you, Mikey."

 

Mikey's face is dancing a little now, gleeful and happy. "Brent always does have the prettiest toys. I covet his laptop; keep trying to steal it when he's looking the other direction."

 

"Bob's a bit harder to steal than a Mac Book." Brent's smiling, happy that the entire meet-and-greet is going so well.

 

"I don't know." Mikey stands back and looks at Bob evaluating. "I think he could be stashed in the trunk of my car pretty easily--I'd need some duct tape and possibly a few zip ties."

 

"No abducting my roommate before dinner," Brent announces. "His stomach rumbles loud enough to bring cops in from a couple miles away and you'd get caught. Then I wouldn't have dinner _or_ a boyfriend."

\--

Brent still listens to country whenever he gets the chance. Bob doesn't mind it, even thinks a couple of the songs are catchy as hell, but he doesn't actively seek it out. Brent does.

He seeks it out and homes in on it, treasures every drawl and twang-filled word.

It's familiar, comfortable across his skin, kind of almost like coming home. He knows that Mikey doesn't like it, but Bob says he doesn't mind it, that it's got a steady rhythm and the beats are often criminally addictive.

Brent doesn't think about this. Doesn't let his mind wander to places that it clearly wants to go. Instead, he steels his thoughts and just listens to the music, hearing it for what it is and not what it represents.

Mostly.  


\--

So when Pete calls this time, Brent actually knows it's Pete. His number is still saved, and his name is dancing across the screen. Brent thinks about not answering for half a second, but in the end he pushes the green little phone button and holds the phone to his ear.

"'Sup?"

"What's this I hear about you shacking up with Bryar?" Pete asks.

"He had extra space," Brent explains. Brent doesn't call Pete on the fact that he's the one that spilled the entire apartment search to Bryar, that he's the one who's been subtly guiding Brent back onto the path to normality. Pete probably wouldn't even understand it if Brent got the courage to say something, anyway. He's kind of oblique like that.

"And that's all it is." Pete doesn't sound as though he believes Brent; there's incredulity in his voice and Brent doesn't really want to deal with it, not now. He's already having thoughts that he knows he shouldn't be having, already comparing Mikey and Bob and finding Mikey lacking in tiny ways.

"Yes, motherfucker. That's all it is."

"Oh." Pete's quiet for a second. "Did I tell you about Bronx?"

"I heard he exists, yes." Brent could be an asshole, too. He just doesn't know if he _should_ be an asshole. Pete's mostly been nice to him; mostly helped him put his life back together. "I heard he's pretty amazing, actually."

"I'll send you photos. He's..." Pete pauses. "He's everything."

And Brent knows it's time to take the stick out of his ass. "That's great, Pete. I'm happy for you."

Pete hums out an answer before hanging up the phone, and over the next ten minutes Brent gets six photographs of Bronx.

_He's cute. You did good._

_Bryar's not bad either._

Brent resists the urge to throw the phone against the wall. It wouldn't be conducive to anything, even if it would make him feel better.

Fucking Pete. He couldn't leave Brent's denial alone.

\--

Mikey breaks up with Brent on a cold winter Sunday, a few minutes after Brent arrives at their normal coffee shop. He's polite about it, a little disconnected and distant, but he's smiling and talking about how they should always be friends and stay in touch. He explains that Brent is just too different from him; they can't go to shows together, can't talk about music, and music is such a large part of Mikey's life that he feels it's too big a divide.

Brent thinks about protesting, thinks about the different country CDs he has in his car, but he knows that Mikey's right. They can't go to the different clubs together; Brent's put all of that behind him. He doesn't enjoy partying, doesn't drink, and Mikey isn't an alcoholic (not by a long shot), but he does enjoy a nice beer at the end of the day, does enjoy sitting in bars and just bullshitting.

They're going different places in their lives and they grew apart. Mikey's a little misty-eyed by the end, talking about how the two of them have had some good times, and how he can't believe it's over, but Brent smiles and nods and agrees with him. He can't believe it's over, and in a way it never is. Brent thinks about saying that, about how he's learned that moving on is not the same as forgetting, and how the past defines the future, because as much as he's moved on from Panic, as much as he's grown and changed and gone into a fucking cocoon and come out a motherfucking butterfly and learned things, this isn't the time to bring it up.

This is the time for smiling and nodding and whispering endearments and platitudes. He wants to stay friends with Mikey, if only because of what Mikey represents. Mikey's been part of his life for four months; been a rock when he needed one, and somebody that will push him into acting, get him out of his comfort zone.

They're saying goodbye a few seconds later, clasping hands and hugging, and Brent walks out of the coffee shop just twenty minutes after he walked in, and his life has changed forever, just a little bit.

He's always thought that if people change a little. They look at the world through a different set of experiences and a different set of eyes. Mikey gave him that; gave him the courage to face things that he thought were left buried in the past.

Brent reaches into his pocket and pulls out the cell phone, is dialing before he has a chance to think. It goes to voice mail, which is easier.

"Hey, Pete--" Brent's voice hitches a little. "Hope the little dude is okay, and that Ashlee's doing well." Brent pauses, sucks in a deep breath. "Is Panic touring? I think I might want to see a show, say hey."

And he's said it, uttered the words, and if he knows the Decaydance rumor mill, it will be spread throughout all the bands before the end of the night. Spencer will know; Brendon, Ryan. And he feels okay about that, feels a little bit relieved and a little bit sick at the thought of seeing his band mates--his former band mates--and knowing they've been successful and happy and done everything they ever needed, ever wanted, to do.

But Brent's done things too. He's in college; he's studying to help kids, to become a school counselor and help kids with decisions like the ones he made, and to tell them it's okay to fail, but it's not okay to not try. He has friends, and family, and Bob, and all of it together has somehow become the most satisfying life he could have ever imagined. He's happier now than he was out on tour, and he wants them to know that. He misses calling Ryan up and talking about random shit; misses Spencer and his shoes, Brendon and his energy. He doesn't know Jon that well, but he thinks that there's probably something there that he'll grow to miss as well.

And he has Bob. He has his own support group and his own cheerleading squad and his own Bob waiting for him at home. Bob, who will be thrilled beyond measure that he's doing this. Bob, who will go to the concert with him and hold his hand and comfort him and hug his shoulders, and Brent smiles now. He has Bob, and that's more than anything he ever thought he could want or get or need. He has Bob.

\--

 

They're grocery shopping when Pete calls him back. Bob's threatening to put Pop-Tarts into the cart, the gross S'mores kind that always tastes too much of imitation marshmallow and not enough of chocolate, and Brent's phone is ringing, and he answers it, laughing, without even looking at the screen.

And suddenly Pete's voice is in his ear, asking if he's sure that he wants to do this, because Panic doesn't have any concerts coming up but they do have a meeting with some of the label people and he thinks they can grab dinner after, that it can definitely be arranged, and Brent is smiling to himself and thinking maybe.

Bob grabs the cell phone and starts talking to Pete, asking for details because Brent is a little speechless, a little unsure of what to do now and how it's all going to affect him, and part of him thinks that maybe this wasn't the best idea, maybe he should have let sleeping dogs lie.

There's a part of him that thinks differently—the part that made him go to Chicago, the part that made him talk to Mikey and talk to Becca, the part that made him take chances—and he listens to that part of himself more than he listens to the fear. That part of himself is saying that he's on the right track, that he's in the right place at the right time, and everything's always been a matter of timing, anyway. Timing and maturity and he knows he's grown, knows he's matured.

Knows that stability was always the name of the game for him and this is stability times a hundred. This is bringing closure, Capital C.

Bob's done talking by this point, waving a hand at Brent and tossing the cell phone back towards him. Brent raises the phone to his ear and is about to talk when Bob just laughs. Pete isn't on the phone anymore, and Brent looks at Bob, confused, but Bob's already turned back to the S'mores and is tossing them into the cart.

"Fuck that." Brent sighs, reaching in and pulling them out. "We're at least getting cinnamon or brown sugar if we're doing this."

\--

Bob spills the details a few hours later, mentions it casually over dinner that Spencer and the others will be in town in a couple of weeks, and they're all going to grab coffee. Brent looks at him for a second, unsure what Bob means by "they're all".

"Fuck you, Wilson. Of course I'm going with," is Bob's response when Brent questions him. "You fucking forced me to go to rehab, and I'm fucking forcing you to do this. Quid pro quo."

Brent doesn't mention everything else Bob's done for him, doesn't mention the biology course that he sat through, or the countless hours of listening to him debate about what to tell Mikey and how to approach him and that entire relationship. Bob talked him through the entire thing, provided moral support.

He just looks at Bob and smiles a bit, sort of a half-grin, and Bob nods at him. They've developed this unspoken language, mostly consisting of grunts and nods, sighs and moans. They can look at each other and just know what the other is thinking. Not all the time, or even most of the time, but when there's a need, when the other person is just being stubborn and not saying what there is to say? They can read each other's bodies.

It's useful in public; Bob gets recognized a lot and they have entire conversations about fans without even saying a word. Bob will nod or shake his head, they'll turn and walk to the car, start talking about something, and make it awkward for the person to come up. Most of the time he smiles and laughs, full-bellied, and reaches into his pocket for the Sharpie that he always keeps with him (that has leaked more than once and ruined a few good pairs of pants), and Brent smiles and encourages the behavior.

Occasionally when Bob's in an ornery mood he'll introduce Brent, say, "this here is Brent Wilson--he used to be in Panic at the Disco."

And Brent will smile and joke, "that was back when it had the exclamation mark. Now it's just Panic and I'm just Brent."

They have it down to a routine, a patter that makes the fans laugh and puts the two of them into the right state of mind. It's familiar and comfortable, and that counts for more than Brent can ever say, because he spent years feeling uncomfortable on the road and he refuses to feel that way in his day to day life. It just is not fucking on.

Sometimes the fans laugh and ask for his autograph. Most of the time, actually--as if they feel obliged, once Bob introduces him, to actually get his autograph, to make it into a story. Brent can hear them in his head, "one time, at band camp..." but he knows that's not how it goes. He remembers being young, before fame even entered into his life.

He'd met Mick Jagger at a hotel in Vegas, ridden in the elevator to visit his uncle's hotel room, and he hadn't even known who the man was, just that his dad stared at him and kind of nudged Brent a little. Brent had laughed, figured that his dad was trying to tell him to tie his shoe. He'd even said that: "Dad, my shoes aren't untied." It was only later, in the safety of his uncle's hotel room, that Brent understood what his dad had been trying to tell him.

This is the experience Brent brings to the table; this is what he does and how he does it. He thinks of a scared father, trying to impress his little boy; an impatient sister waiting for her sibling; a group of friends, each daring one another to even greater heights. He takes it with a grain of salt and smiles and laughs at the fans' jokes, tries to be the kind of Mick Jagger his dad wished would have been in the elevator; the kind that would smile and introduce himself, take the first step because that's what's needed sometimes.

\--

Bob has a fondness for Pinkberry yogurt. Brent thinks it's pretty fucking disgusting, all that active bacterial cultures and slightly sour taste, but Bob loves it and a couple times a week they'll go down and get some. It's almost a habit, but not quite. People can't predict when they'll arrive and when they'll leave; the same person isn't always behind the counter. Brent has his favorite ice-cream-rista (like a barista, but for ice cream), this cute young girl, not more than fifteen, clearly her first job ever, and she wears t-shirts advertising all the old shows Brent watched growing up (not that he'll admit it). Care Bears and Rainbow Bright, David the Gnome--she even has one that talks about The Popples, and Bob hadn't known what they were. That entire conversation deserved a special spot in the Random Hall of Fame; crazy-ass shit. Always guaranteed conversation starters, always something that doesn't take a lot of energy and is low-key enough and funny enough to be slightly memorable.

It's a weird tradition, something that doesn't make sense to most people--going to Pinkberry and hoping that a certain ice-cream-rista is in, but it's theirs. It's Brent and Bob's and nothing else matters. It's part of making Chicago a home; tiny pieces of home scattered over a city of experiences, tiny memories that can be held and treasured and looked back on and smiled about. When Brent goes back to Nevada, to see his parents, it's things like this that he'll remember.

\--

Brent sees Brendon first, a shock of color and speed and suddenly he has his arms full of a laughing, slender man.

"I didn't believe Pete when he said you called, but fuck—finally!" Brendon is loud, obviously happy, and jumping on his tiptoes. "I've waited for fucking ever! There's so much to tell you!"

Brent is laughing slightly, because this is the Brendon he remembers. The young kid that had too much energy and too much spirit, and Brent reaches out tentatively and hugs Brendon back, because fuck but he's missed the guy.

He's in the middle of trying to put Brendon back down the floor when he sees Ryan, a little hunched over in the corner, covered in multi-colored scarves, and Brent can almost see an illusion of flowers, red roses that ghost over Ryan, and it's a familiar memory, a safe memory.

Brent nods at Ryan, smiles tentatively and doesn't move towards him, but he does acknowledge him, acknowledge that he's there, and Brent is here, and Brendon is bouncing back and forth between the two of them, a hyper little bunny.

"Have you met Bob?" Brent's voice cracks a little.

"I heard you had a piece of man flesh," Brendon sing-songs out.

"Yeah, well, Mikey moved onto greener pastures," Brent laughs out. "Bob is my roommate."

"Fuck—Mikeyway? You hooked up with Mikey Fucking Way?" Ryan can't contain himself, surging forward a little bit. "Spence mentioned that you knew Bob, but he didn't…"

"Not fucking Mikey Way." Bob spoke up for the first time, looming in the doorway. "Just a nice kid from his class."

"Bob Bryar?" Brendon looks intrigued. "Spencer said he talked to you awhile ago, but he didn't mention a roommate. He didn't say anything about Bob Bryar, either."

"Yeah, well." Bryar shifted from foot to foot. "Spencer didn't exactly call to catch up the news, you know?"

"Yeah." Brent runs his fingers through his hair absently. "Where is Spence-Wentz?" Brent says the old, familiar name partially out of habit and partially because he wishes Pete was here, in the room, his loud obnoxious self, eager to deflect attention away from Bob and Brent. That was precisely why he wasn't there, but still.

"He didn't come," Brendon answered carefully. "He thought maybe the two of us were enough, for a first visit."

And Brent feels a surge of anger. "You mean he didn't want to see the screw up, right? The guy he had to kick out the band and hasn't bothered calling since, except by accident when he meant to be calling Bryar to commiserate about his fucked up wrists."

Bob doesn't say a word, just moves forward quietly and rests a hand against Brent's shoulder, silently offering support.

"I mean, all the lengthy phone calls after you kicked me out of the band must have been hard; stressful. Wait, you didn't even bother texting me. At least the My Chem guys force themselves at Bob constantly. Gee even showed up because he was worried."

And Brent didn't know he was still angry about the treatment, the silence, but he is. It's bubbling over the top and he wants to scream, wants to use his words to hurt them as much as they hurt him.

Brendon's calming down a little, moving back towards Ryan. "You didn't call us, either." Ryan's voice is a little shaky.

"Motherfuck." Bob glares at Ryan a little. "You fuckers kicked him out of the band. Of course he didn't call you."

There's complete silence for a minute, then two. Brent's shifting, and he's about ready to turn and walk out the door—he knew this was a bad idea--when Brendon speaks up.

"He made us kick him out. He didn't want to be there and didn't have the balls to say that, either. He just wanted us all to be as miserable as he was, as depressed."

Brent's a little shocked at the words, because he hadn't been happy on the road, not like he is now, but that didn't mean he hated his job, that he had been miserable and wanted them to fire him.

"It was that or lose the band," Ryan tries to explain.

"Friends before the music, friends after the music," Brent whispers. "We fucking promised each other that, before we even started."

"I also couldn't go back to fucking Vegas," Ryan snarls out. "Couldn't go back to being a nothing, a nobody."

"Brent isn't a nobody." Bob sounds calm. "He's more of a somebody than either of you could ever be. Overcame more than you'll ever see in your entire lifetime." And he's turning Brent around now, guiding him out the door and into the hallway, into the nearest closet. And Brent is a little tempted to crack a joke about going into the closet, because Brendon was not subtle at all, but he can't even form the words, can't force sounds across his lips.

Bob doesn't whisper platitudes; say that everything will look better in the morning. Instead, he holds Brent close and doesn't mock him, not even a little bit, when he feels the tears that are running down Brent's cheeks.

"They're not worth it," Bob finally whispers, some undetermined amount of time later. "They lost you, and fuck, you know? It was hard, but I think it worked out alright. But I'm selfish, too."

And Brent smiles through the flood of tears down his face. "Maybe this wasn't my best idea ever."

Bob shakes his head. "They had your back once. I think they will again." And Brent doesn't want to think about that future, about that distant point when Panic will be disbanded, and they'll come to him for help because he'll know how to survive without a guitar in his hands and a chorus in his head. It's too far off to be anything more than a pipe dream, anyway.

Instead he leans against Bob, in the dark closet, and breathes deeply. He wants to pull his cell out, wants to send angry text messages to Pete about how fucked up his bands are and how fucked up Brent still is, even though he thought was getting better, but he doesn't. He breathes against Bob and rests his head against Bob's shoulder and he realizes how lucky he is that he has Bob.

One time, he can't fucking remember when, but Bob had been down and missing the MCR guys a lot, Brent watched _Life on the Murder Scene_ with Bob. And Frank had this line, about how he thanked god for Bob.

And that was what is running through Brent's head now, as he stands there against the solid line of muscle. He couldn't imagine life without Chicago, life without Dixie and Bob; life when he was still back in his parents' house and trying to find out who he was amongst the reminders of who he used to be.

"Thank you." Brent breathes it out, a little quiet, a little so he didn't think Bryar would actually hear it, but instead feel it, though osmosis. And it might be his imagination, but he thinks Bob pulls him a little closer, hugs him a little tighter.

Either way, Brent feels safe.

They're climbing into the car minutes later, Brent behind the wheel because he enjoys driving, enjoys the normalcy of it and the nice car doesn't hurt, either. Bob pulls his cell out and looks at Brent for a second before gesturing to it. "Do you mind if I call the guys?"

Brent turns to look at Bob, a smile blooming over his over his face. "I think that'd be great."

Bob flushes a little, but begins scrolling through his phone book.

"Tell Gee I say hi," Brent adds a few seconds later as he focuses on pulling the car out into the moving traffic.

\--

A few weeks later and Brent is almost ready to forget the disastrous meeting, almost ready to forget that the men he once considered his brothers were nothing more than common douche bags of the highest order. But then Bob looks at him a little nervously, out of the corner of his eye.

"So, uh." Bob looks at Brent, a little shy. "Smith called, while you were at school."

Brent nods, half listening to Bob and half stirring the pasta sauce in front of him. "That's…" Brent pauses for a second, searching for the right word. "Unexpected."

"He, ah..." Bob sounds nervous. Brent turns, looks at Bob and smiles. "Spencer, he said he'd kick my ass if I hurt you."

"Hmmm." Brent pauses before continuing, "don't hurt me, then."

"I didn't think you were talking with the guys from Panic, after what happened," Bob half-asks, half-states. That meeting had been a fucking disaster, and he knows that it's still close to the chest, still occupying a lot of Brent's mind.

"I'm not." Brent turns back to his pasta sauce and stirs it. "I fucking want to rip Ryan's head off, still." And Bob nods, because this at least, if is familiar territory. "I emailed them, though." Brent continues. He doesn't see the shock on Bob's face at this announcement. "I told Brendon we should grab a Pink Berry when he comes to town next, just the two of us. And Ryan wants to see the Museum of Science and Industry."

"Um," Bob says, unsure of how to process this information.

Brent's stirring the pasta continuously and reflecting still: "I miss them. I want to be friends again." And he says it plainly, like he knows it won't be easy but it's a worthwhile goal. And Bob agrees. It is a worthwhile goal, something that Brent should reach out for and hold on to, keep striving for.

Brent's classes are going well at University of Chicago, and Brent knows now that he's happier now, living this life with Bob and classes and Dixie than he was on tour. It's taken him awhile, a few years, a couple of different girls and Mikey and Bob, and yes, it wasn't what he planned for himself at sixteen, but he's grown up a lot since then.

The thing is, Bob's still talking: "-- would Smith think I'm going to hurt you?"

Brent thinks for a second before turning the stove off, before he turns around and faces Bob. "Probably because I might love you, a little bit." And Brent has never been the most in-touch with his feelings, but he knows that when he was with Panic he felt as if parts of himself were missing, and when he was home he still felt that way, and now that he's in Chicago and he's with Bob, he doesn't think he could ever feel that way ever again.

There's always Dixie to walk and Bob to threaten and schoolwork to do, and if he gets really desperate, there's a Starbucks down the street, and he's even playing his bass again, but not much, and not professionally.

And he does love Bob, a little bit. He's not in love with Bob, but he likes the person he is around Bob, and he likes the person that Bob is around him, and he thinks that might be a good place to start.

"Oh." Bob doesn't say anything else, just leans back against the kitchen counter and looks at Brent, a little worried.

"Not--" Brent shakes his head, tries to clear his thoughts. "Not like, in love with you, although I think that could happen, if we want it to. It's just--"

And suddenly Brent isn't saying anything, he's just leaning against the stove, and the two of them are looking at each other and not moving. Not saying anything, and their silences have always been loud, but this is fucking ridiculous.

"No, I get it," Bob says a few minutes later. "You make the silence easier."

Brent grins at that description, mouth wide, and if he isn't careful he's totally going to knock the pasta sauce on the floor, but for right now he doesn't care.

"That's it exactly, Bryar."

And they don't kiss (on the lips at least), and it isn't a fairy tale ending. Bob's wrists still crap out on him half the time and he wears his braces a lot more than he'd like; he hasn't picked up his drumsticks in months, and Brent doesn't think he's ever going to, really.

Brent is still in school, and he doesn't get recognized a lot, but his hair is black again, and occasionally there are people who look at him out of the corner of their eye and wonder before moving on. Brent still doesn't listen to most rock music, and he definitely doesn't listen to the new Panic! stuff, although he's heard from his parents (who are well-intentioned but not necessarily the best at reading context clues) that the new stuff is very Beatlesesque, and that makes Brent smile a little bit.

He never liked the Beatles much, anyway.


End file.
